


Untangle Me

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Riding Crop, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time he needed more than the soft strokes of John’s fingers. This time he needed the sharp stroke of the crop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untangle Me

John came home from his shift at the A&E to find Sherlock’s riding crop propped up against the door of the flat.

“Shit.”

Sherlock hadn’t spoken for days. Normally that wasn’t a problem. Not when he had a case on and his brain was occupied with untangling some riddle or mystery.

But there hadn’t been a case for almost two weeks. Sherlock hadn’t spoken for four days. Not a word. There was no mystery to solve, no riddle to work through. Sherlock was beginning to spiral down into a depression where he could get so lost in himself, he would not be able to find his own way back. Now it was his mind that was tangled; twisted and straining against itself.

John didn’t press him because he knew sooner or later Sherlock would tell him what he needed. 

Sometimes all it took was letting Sherlock stretch out like a cat on the sofa with his head in John’s lap. Or letting John wash his hair in the shower. Or just letting John hold him and tell him stories about his service in Afghanistan.

Sometimes it took more.

The riding crop against the door jamb was Sherlock asking John for help; for what he needed. 

This time he needed more than the soft strokes of John’s fingers. This time he needed the sharp stroke of the crop.

John picked up the crop and opened the door. He knew what he would find. Sherlock would be curled on the sofa, back to the room and so still that if you didn’t know he was there you might sit on him thinking he was just an oversized cushion.

John put the crop down on the coffee table and went to their bedroom. He knew what he would find there too. Sherlock had already tied the soft restraints to each leg of the bed and now they lay coiled like snakes over the top of the duvet.

Sherlock trailed in after John and was slowly removing his dressing gown and pajamas. He had the crop with him.

“Are you sure?” John asked him. He hated the lost blank look on the face he had grown to love so much.

Sherlock nodded so shallowly that it was just a tiny dip of his chin and downward flick of his eyes. He gave the crop to John.

“Alright then.” He held out his hand, helped Sherlock onto the bed and began to tie him up. The cords were soft so if Sherlock pulled against them, he wouldn’t damage himself. He was laying flat on his stomach, wrists and ankles anchored to the four corners of the bed. John ran his fingers through the dark curls on his love’s head. “I’ll be right back”.

John set about undressing himself. He did this because he knew Sherlock liked to see the way his muscles worked under his skin and he liked the sheen of sweat that would make his skin shine. It was all part of bringing Sherlock back from the depths and John would do whatever it took because he loved him.

It went against his nature to cause pain, not that he hadn’t in the past. He was a doctor and sometimes you need to cause a little more pain to heal. He was a soldier and sometimes that meant battle and with that came pain and even death. Deaths he had caused. He’d killed a man to protect Sherlock and would do it all again in a heartbeat. If he had to hurt Sherlock to bring him back, he would do that too.

It wasn’t about the pain but the focus. It wasn’t about the surrender but the trust. Before John there had been the cocaine. John would rather do this than let Sherlock start shooting up again. This he could control, the drug he could not. The cocaine could accidentally kill Sherlock. John would not. He knew how far to go, how hard and for how long. The drug could be arbitrary with it strength no matter how careful Sherlock was. John’s strength was steady and consistent. Sherlock loved him for it.

“Do you remember your safe word?” John asked as he stepped up to the side of the bed. Sherlock nodded.

“I need to hear you say it “Lock.” He stroked the back of his hand up Sherlock’s spine. He could feel the anticipatory tension there.

*“Retour.” It was a whisper.

“Fine.” And without any preamble, John brought the crop whistling down onto Sherlock’s left buttock; no pause and it came back down on the right. Sherlock gave a small grunt and sigh.

John was glad to hear the sigh - it meant this would not take too long.

He walked to the other side of the bed and swung the crop twice more. Another stripe on each cheek. They were turning the creamy skin pink. He placed his right palm over the welts that were forming. They were warm.

The crop came down on the slender thighs next; four strokes each. Sherlock was beginning to sweat, but John could see he was beginning to relax.

He tucked the crop under Sherlock’s right hip and said “Up”. Sherlock obeyed and stuck his arse in the air. He was hard. John climbed onto the bed and positioned himself behind Sherlock, wedging his own hard cock between the reddened buttocks. It would be harder to use the crop form here, but he was using the contact of his body to anchor Sherlock in a way the cords could not. 

Sherlock sighed again. A long luxuriant exhalation of breath that signaled that this was almost over, that John could stop.

John flicked the crop against Sherlock’s back a few times and soon the skin there matched the pink-tinged skin on his thighs and bum. He soothed the skin with his hand. 

“Retour.” Sherlock used his safeword, not because of intolerable pain but because the pain had stopped. The storm in his head was over. The clouds were gone. John had found him and brought him back.

John bent and kissed Sherlock’s tailbone. He threw the crop on the floor and untied the cords. He eased Sherlock back down onto the bed, stretching out next to him and holding him.

“Are you there?” He was looking into the most incredibly beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. He brushed sweaty curls off of Sherlock’s face.

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock kissed John, “Thank you. You made it stop. Its quiet now.” John kissed him back. Nothing urgent, just soft reassuring touches of lips. 

“I will get you a cold towel for your back. Stay here.” John went to the kitchen and soaked a towel in ice water for a few minutes. When he came back to their bedroom, Sherlock was almost asleep.

“Love, let me see your back.” John inspected his work. there was no broken skin, just red welts that would fade. He had wrung out the towel and now draped it from shoulder blades to knees.

“Ssss! Damnit John, that is cold.”

“Yeah, you’re back alright.” John chuckled stretched out next to his love again. “Will you tell me about it? What brought it on this time?”

“I was thinking of the life we have and the life you could have had and…”

John cut him off, “And what about the life I want? Hm? This is the life I want. I want all of the infuriating crazy shit that comes with it, because it comes with you too. I love you and will never stop. Never. Count on it. This is my life, and I love you more than I thought I could love anybody. Please remember that you saved me, brought me back when I thought I was nothing but an ex-army doctor with a limp, a shrink and a shitty bedsit. We save and protect each other. That is how it works, and love, for us it works beautifully.” He pulled Sherlock into a deeper kiss.

They fell asleep kissing and wrapped in each other, the wet towel thrown on the floor next to the discarded crop. The crop that would be put away, and John hoped, he would not see for a long time.

 

(*”return” in French.)


End file.
